


Late Nights

by veridical



Series: Tips For Ruining Your Business [6]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Intoxication, M/M, Maccadam's
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-03-18 13:37:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3571607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veridical/pseuds/veridical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blurr can't seem to leave the bar counter. The night (some time) after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Late Nights

**Author's Note:**

> Started (and to be honest, finished) as a completely self-indulgent shit.

For the first time in forever, - or, at least, in as long as he could remember, and Blurr was a bit hesitant to rely on his faulty memory, - Swindle was really, absolutely, smashingly drunk, and Blurr wasn't.

It was hard to say just how it came to be, but Swindle usually, as far as Blurr was aware, knew his limits.  _Comes with the job_ , the merchant would say, grin wide as usual, and it was true: the only times Blurr could remember Swindle really  _losing it_ , he went right alongside him, with no prior agreement, just a simple nod, a quiet understanding; either because everything was terribly pointless and made no sense - or because they were still, unbelievably, gloriously alive, and Maccadam’s pulsed around them, real and improbable. Well, “remember” was stretching it a bit too far, but he relied on Swindle and occasional others to relay it to him later, with all the appropriate teasing and insinuations. Or graciously spare him the details.

This time— he wasn’t sure at which point it started to slip beyond his - or Swindle’s control, - but some shots later, the ex-con was barely throwing one glance his way before ordering another. Until one time Blurr just... didn't leave his usual place across him.

He told himself he was worried. He was. He also was discovering there was something almost entrancing about him, in this state. Something made it harder for him to look away, and Blurr didn’t try. Swindle smiled more like this. His laugh was softer, optics shining brighter. The bantering was still there, but it was lacking something - some edge, - and Blurr liked that, too, just for now, for a change.

And now, Swindle's hand was tracing circles on Blurr's absent-mindedly. For the first few moments, Blurr couldn't move, couldn't raise his gaze, as if he would immediately have to admit that this was another side-effect, another _bonus_ he didn't really mind. To refer to it as a bonus seemed— wretched. But soft movements, air slightly warming around them, a firm presence of another field were not something Blurr would let go of easily. It felt vaguely familiar, though he couldn't place it.

He shouldn't be placing it. He should have been managing something else; there always were things to do around Maccadam's, even though he had already labeled the night as a quiet one. He could only see one non-regular. Others could manage themselves without his help.

He would have offered it anyway, eager and helpful as he tried to be, but the night was quiet and Swindle's hand was on his.

He wondered if he should be getting worried about how often he saw Swindle just plain _drunk_ these days. Not that it was strange: his place was a bar-- well, that is, this was a bar, and it was his, and Swindle was... Swindle wasn't...

For one thing, Swindle spent all his time here.

Oh, he vanished occasionally. Last time had lasted for five days, and in the end, Blurr had no desire to waste energy denying the fact that he started counting them, not with Slug throwing meaningful glances his way every time the bartender had lifted a hopeful glance at the opened door. He tried to pretend he didn't see them, along with the sympathetic smiles Windblade gave him, huffing and getting _merrily_  on with his _job_. Which was a bit sour and more than a little dull for reasons he had no time to think about, but still engaging enough.

When Swindle had finally come, scratched up, dirty and, in some places, possibly leaking, it was late, later than he had ever showed up, and Blurr blessed the fact that most of the regular crowd, _especially_  certain triceratopses, had already left - but only after he grabbed the merchant in a hug, almost lifting him off the ground.

It was far from the first one, and Swindle's field washed over him with sweet familiarity.

Now, Blurr glanced over to where the Dinobot was sitting, seemingly immerged in some no doubt fascinating discussion with Sky-Byte. He should go to them, check if they needed anything. He knew he should.

But Jazz's surprisingly skilled replacement - an ex-Decepticon, in fact, and Blurr quietly relished the fact that this was nothing special for Maccadam's, by now, - was playing something slow and sensuous, dexterous fingers jamming the metal strings absent-mindedly, and Blurr was drawn into the music, low light just enough to see the outlines of the bar and Swindle's optics across him. Swindle was silent - Blurr would be half-afraid he had slipped into some weird recharge, were it not for the fingers still drawing indescribable patterns on his hand.

"Will have to close up soon," Blurr muttered to himself, and it sounded familiar too. Of course it would, he said that nearly every night, or at least thought it.

But this was— something. Something else.

A hand tightened around his own, and Blurr looked up to see Swindle crestfallen.

"Don't worry, buddy, you'll still have another drink," the ex-racer promised him, patting their hands, clutched together.

"You'll still close up," Swindle said with resignation.

"I..."

"You always do," he added as if not hearing the barkeeper. Blurr found something inside him twisting uncomfortably. His fingers twitched, t-cog almost itching to transform - he wished he could escape this, run off, wished there wasn't a counter between them. Maybe he could-- maybe he could get closer and understand, or just escape the purple light which seemed to get duller. Or anything, do anything so it wouldn't ache when Swindle did this.

"Come with me," Blurr mouthed quietly, the words slipping from him as easily as he held them in every other night.

Swindle didn't even react the way the ex-racer had imagined he would. Instead, he simply shook his helm. "Can't."

"Of course you can!" Blurr exclaimed, in all probability louder than he intended. But the music didn't stop. Slug probably looked their way, but Blurr was past the point of caring. “What— why— why? What's stopping you?"

He cringed at his own emotional display; almost heard what could follow, so clear in his mind: sarcastic retorts, laughs, jabs. What a night - the bartender of Maccadam's makes a fool of himself! He imagined Slug telling it to the others the next cycle and fell something turning in his tanks.

"Can't drive," Swindle explained. "Long way to your place."

"...Oh."

For a nano-klik, he simply listened to the wild ideas slowly disintegrating into nothing. Then Swindle's words reached him.

"Drive? You can't _drive_? Don't you get enough fuel? I knew that you should consume more of the actual nourishing stuff and not-- Oh Primus. Do I serve bad engex? Is your engine faulty? Do you need oil? Maybe a change of tires? Why in the name of the Seething Moon didn't you go to the medic?"

Swindle let him talk it out. Maybe he simply slipped away for a while.

"Well," he finally replied, looking at their joined hands as if he only just discovered them. "Not drive, actually. I can't. Do the thing? You know. The thing we do."

"The thing."

"Well, there's this cog?.." Swindle asked as if doubting his own words. "And it does the thing, oh, I forgot the fragging word."

The bartender stared. Swindle spinned one of his own wheels with his free hand.

"You can't transform," Blurr slowly said.

Swindle snapped his fingers, nodded, then looked away.

As chilling as the thought was, it certainly explained some things. He just assumed that maybe Swindle wasn't that fond of his altmode, and he didn't see him outside the bar that much anyways. But why didn't Swindle just go to a medic? Maybe their service wasn't the best, but it was certainly the only one on Cybertron and they seemed to do the job well enough-- for Primus' sake, Flatline used to be one of theirs!

There was certainly something wrong about this, but the moment Blurr was ready to blurt out all the new questions he now had, Slug came up to the bar counter.

Swindle didn't seem to notice. _That_ was frightening.

"IIIII'll settle the tab tomorrow," he declared with a little tilt to his words that told Blurr just how smashed he actually was.

"Oh fine," he muttered. “Just go. Take Sky-Byte with you."

Slug shrugged non-commitently, then took a moment to study the way the bartender seemed to have an ex-con attached to himself via arm.

"Easy go, kid." A beat. "Uh. Go easy, I mean."

Blurr almost bristled at that, but Slug just patted him on the shoulder and left.

Swindle was still not reacting, and Blurr wondered if he somehow actually managed to go offline sitting here.

"You there?" he inquired. His hand was clutched in return, but the other mech was still looking away.

The ex-racer hesitantly brought his other hand up and stroked their joint limbs.

"We'll walk then."

Swindle snorted. "You? You never walk." He looked at him intently, the gaze suddenly very sober, intent, just the same as it would be were he not smashed to the Pit. Blurr suddenly recalled the way that gaze felt very uncomfortable to him, not that long ago.

"I can walk," Blurr objected, feeling a bit drunk too, and leaned in conspirationally. "I can even run, y'know."

Swindle actually giggled and brought his other hand up, touching one of Blurr's headfins.

"Always wanted to do that," he whispered earnestly. Blurr choked on nothing.

"Come," he said. He took his hand away reluctantly to get out from behind the counter.

Once everyone had been shooed out, not-Jazz thanked extensively, he put the lights out and exited the bar, with Swindle in tow. He took some time to study the sky. Luna 2 grinned at him from above.

"You sometimes wish you could fly?" he wondered aloud.

Swindle was scowling when Blurr looked at him. "No."

"I used to," he admitted.

"I used to wish I had a giant combiner of my own," Swindle told him with a straight face. Blurr laughed. His memory circuits whirred uselessly.

But he could remember this, at least. He looked at the sky, the bar humming behind him, not the one he used to wish for, but something else, and felt alive. 

"Let's go then," he called. Swindle matched him stride for uneven stride. Blurr grabbed his elbow to support him, realising belatedly that in his drunk state, Swindle wouldn't be able to drive legally anyway, so really, this was in everyone's best interests.

"I'm not even sure the road to your place has pavements," the smaller mech muttered.

"We'll manage," Blurr told him and found Swindle's hand, suddenly realising he never asked how the ex-con knew where his place was. But it was just another thing in a long list of such, and he let it go at the same time as he clutched harder.


End file.
